Dainty Devil
by Loves-Chihuahuas
Summary: He was literally untouchable—and perhaps it was that, above all else, that made others want to touch him, get close to him, see if he would even rise an eyebrow if made to bleed. And, oh, it was so, so tempting to knock oneself off their own pedestal.


_**The Dainty Devil**_

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Death Note, nor do I own a fish—they seem to die quickly…

**Reason: **I'm responding to one of my own challenges—make something that involves AizawaxLight. EoE I know, trust me, I know…

**Warning:** Contains mentions of slash, but nothing nasty, so the rating will stay at T. Also, it was written at 2 am, so no guarantees for quality.

_**The Dainty Devil**_

_Subtitle: Touch_

It was something no one would have ever expected; not of him, and not of the other. Especially not together.

He was on a whole different level than everyone else, young Light Yagami, in terms of looks, intelligence, poise, and now, taking over as L, also in social standing. He was literally untouchable—and perhaps it was that, above all else, that made others _want_ to touch him, get close to him, see if he would even rise an eyebrow if made to bleed. He reveled in his impervious status, high above all else, not wanting to share his beauty with anyone—no, not even those that others convinced themselves he did let in.

Misa was not allowed to touch him, not emotionally, not physically, and she certainly knew to act as if she were allowed to- maybe because in acting so in public was the only time she was permitted contact with him that she clung to him so tightly, tears in her eyes as she smiled so genuinely. Light would always be found locked in a bathroom scrubbing his skin after her departure.

The others, though they did their best to unknowingly persuade themselves, knew in the back of their minds, where their instincts were locked and consciouses drugged, that the golden young man was never held close in arms nor heart, never tainted. And it drove them mad. They were only 'human' after all. They were intensely curious, attracted, and overwhelmed by the boy—and they could not see him as more than a boy nor less than supernatural, at once so innocent and so extraordinary. It made them want to touch him. To embrace him. To rip him apart. To just make contact with him in some way that wasn't carefully constructed but fully free, fully human.

Who could not want him in some form or another? Some in every way.

Suichi Aizawa, married and a father, was not immune, nor were his coworkers. Aizawa, when first regarding the boy at 17, thought him to be an untouchable angel, soft and fragile, purest of all.

Years passed, and he grew more obsessed, as did the others in the investigation team. They let themselves be led by the boy, their fear and reverence growing, and before they knew it—hate spawned. Aizawa, looking at the fallen angel of 23 years, felt a smoldering hate in his gut that mixed and bubbled with awe and want. And what made him most angry of all, more so than the fact that the devil in sheep's skin never let anyone reach up to his pedestal to touch him, was that the boy _knew _that he gazed after him and was beyond intelligent enough to know what was held in those increasingly often glances. The brat was untouchable, and Aizawa just wanted to hold him, hurt him, touch him. Him and his damned, wicked, inhuman beauty. Damn him for being all that was good, and all that was evil; Kira and L, all in one.

After a certain point, though, the untouchable long for a moment of a contact, whether gentle or violent – when those such as Light have gone so long in their public isolation, always so near but never accessible, so weary and tired of the perfection. And the stress certainly did not help at that time, standing on top of the tiny point of a large, sheer mountain above all those on the oh-so-welcoming flat, safe ground below. It was so tempting to knock oneself off their own pedestal.

So it was that when the very first of them, Aizawa, began to suspect Light more than was acceptable to the angelic boy, he saw his opportunity to let himself fall—more like let himself be taken down off his pretty shelf, like a porcelain doll, and be thrashed around by a child, only to be replaced. What could it hurt? Maybe he wanted to be hurt…?

They were alone in the investigation room late one night. In stank of coffee and stale cigarettes mingling with Misa's expensive perfume. Light was sitting at the couch, exhausted but not wanting to appear so, a hot cup of cheap joe warming his hands. Aizawa, having volunteered to stay late with Light on a whim, brought himself out of his trance in starring at the boy across the room, so cracked but whole, to bring him a file he had requested. Light made to grab the file, but, perhaps on purpose, fumbled, the file landing on the ground and his hot coffee sloshing from its Styrofoam cup onto his thin white dress shirt.

Aizawa leaned forward in a slight panic at the other's beautifully startled cry, not knowing what he was doing but acting on the need to help the boy so tainted and so pure, like his shirt—he placed his fingertips against the warm stain over the boy's heart. He stilled suddenly, realizing what he had done was not only stupid in that he could picture Matsuda doing it, but also thrillingly dangerous in that he was _touching him._

Light sat in shock, his insides arguing with each other over what to do next—sit there, lean upwards, fall backwards, tell him to screw off, start sobbing, they all seemed appealing. He teetered on the boundary of his tiny pedestal, at the edge of the gold trimming, he told his brain and pride to take a nice nap and let himself place a toe off the edge, waiting for the other the reach up and yank him down, play with him—Light let uncertain and curious eyes, eyes never allowed in view of anyone alive, look meekly up at the much older and larger man, allowing his eyes to _beg._

Aizawa almost lost his breath, and leaning downwards, his let himself cross a line none but the real L would ever dare, and took the dainty little devil off it's pedestal.

It was there on the couch they did the deed, the file forgotten on the floor—sweaty, hot, painful and wonderfully alien. They were loud and messy and completely human, there was blood and sweat and oh so much touching. Light let himself fall farther and faster off his shelf, pleading and begging and moaning and shedding tears as he, the only person to ever at once be L and Kira, let himself be deflowered on a beat-up old couch by a large, hairy, angry, older officer that suspected him to be a mass murderer. Aizawa took Light off his pedestal, and neither regretted it, even after Light had climbed back up on that high, lonely throne. How cloud he regret it? It was sweet and painful and so wonderfully human—perhaps the only thing that kept his insanity from overriding him until the very end.

END

A/N: O.O I know, I know. It didn't get sick or perverted, so calm down. Remember I wrote it at 2 am e.e


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